By the time Ian pulled up in front of the house, Hunter was more than ready, meeting him in the curving redbrick driveway before the older man even had a chance to get out of his car. In the intervening time, Hunter had showered, eaten some soft-boiled eggs on toast, and read several chapters of P.A. Brown’s crime novel, L.A. Boneyard. In spite of Ms. Brown’s literary cunning and flair for suspense, Hunter could not refrain from glancing out the front window every few minutes or so, hungry for the site of Ian’s green Jaguar making its way north on Sheridan Road.
Ian got out of the car. “Well, good morning, sunshine! Someone’s chomping at the bit!”
Hunter hurried to the car, opened the door, and plopped down in the passenger seat. He fastened his seat belt. When Ian got back inside, Hunte
